


liable to be typecast

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: British Actor RPF, Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: Background Relationships, Embedded Images, First Time, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: “Oh, you know that’s going to put the internet in a tizzy.” David’s not exactly objecting to the visual of him scrunched up laughing while Michael aims to plant one on him, but he knows precisely the reaction it’s going to garner even if he’ll not be seeing it directly. Barrowman for one will surely be texting him about it within the hour using the phrase ‘horny slut’ in some context. “But have at it.”Michael slides his arm away from David’s shoulder and starts composing a tweet. “It’s like advance PR for our film.”
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 54
Kudos: 191
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	liable to be typecast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HimereCalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimereCalliope/gifts).

> Happy Yuletide! I loved your prompt so much. There's a movie poster embedded at the bottom of the fic which I am hoping will load properly. If it isn't loading, please someone say something so I can host it elsewhere!

“David!”

David turns about at Michael’s ebullient shouting and swiftly finds himself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic bear hug in the middle of the hotel lobby. Michael is one of those rare individuals who gives truly outstanding hugs--the sort that enfold you in the metaphorical embrace of a cozy woolen blanket and leave you feeling renewed no matter how jet-lagged and exhausted you are.

He finds himself grinning as Michael squeezes him one last time before releasing him. Along with excellent hugs, Michael has the remarkable ability to make one feel as if he is giving you his full and complete attention. David basks in it as Michael says, “It’s so lovely to see you,” and pats him fondly on the arm.

“Been a while hasn’t it.”

“Oh, a couple prams worth, I’d say. How’s Georgia? As lovely as ever, I expect.”

“She’s very well, thank you. Although haven’t the two of you been messaging one another rather a lot?”

“We have, and I hope your ears have been _burning_. Still, it’s only polite to ask,” Michael says somewhat impishly. “You know, if you were as quick to respond to my texts as your wife, we wouldn’t be stood here with so very much to catch up on.”

“It’s a strategy I employ, else we’d have nothing at all to chat about.”

“An effective if frustrating tactic. Fancy a drink?” Michael asks, nodding towards the hotel bar.

“God, I’d love to but--” David holds up his key card and looks meaningfully at the lift. Michael’s been living out of a suitcase for a couple weeks now filming on his show, so he’s already on New York time, but David’s just come in on a late afternoon flight from London and he’s knackered. “How about breakfast instead?”

Michael gives him a quick measuring glance that he can only categorize as flirty. “As if you of all people need beauty rest.”

“Flatterer.”

“Tease.”

“Me? Never. Must have me confused with some other cranky Scot operating on not nearly enough sleep.”

Michael grins toothily and waves him on his way. “Ring me when you’re up and about. I’m not on the call sheet tomorrow and our production meeting is when, two in the afternoon? We’ll have plenty of time to see one another before we’re seeing far too much of one another.”

*

Breakfast isn’t a bite in the hotel but rather Michael insisting on taking him to a diner in midtown. It’s a classic, bare bones joint that smells of bacon and sausages and there’s nary a grain bowl or chia smoothie to be seen. Michael clearly adores it. The server sits them in the back corner at a little row of tables tucked away from the counter.

Michael doesn’t even look at the menu and simply beams at him from across the laminate surface. “You look like shit,” he says.

“Now who was it that was telling me--I think it was just the other day, in fact--that I didn’t need any beauty sleep at all...?”

“Well whoever they were is a fucking idiot.”

“Sounds about right,” David replies, cracking a smile as he skims down the list of various ways one could combine eggs, pancakes, bacon, and sausages.

“I’ve missed you, David,” Michael says, with sudden and startling sincerity. “Did you get the socks I sent?”

“I am in fact wearing them right this moment.” David extends a leg beside the table and hikes up his trouser cuff to flash a bit of ankle. Greedily, he soaks up Michael’s delight at seeing his gift put to use. An offhand comment about how he ought get a snake print pair to commemorate the wrap on Good Omens, and some months later the little package had arrived out of the blue with a lovely note and fond memories. He really ought to have sent a gift in return, or at least a thank you card, but as it often does, life had gotten in the way, and really he’s always been a bit rubbish when it comes to gift-giving. Michael and Georgia both have an innate talent for that sort of thing whereas the skill seems to have skipped him entirely. Georgia at least lets him make up for his many faults as a functional human being in the bedroom. “Baby’s with mum then?”

Michael nods and his eyes flick up as the server approaches to take their order and drop off two mugs of tea. When she’s gone, the conversation picks up again without pause, and Michael fills him in on how things are going up to when their food arrives and beyond. Midway through a plate of eggs, he lowers his knife and fork and looks David straight in the eye to say, “You know I’d forgotten how much work little babies are after the first few weeks.”

“Talk to me when you’re juggling more than one wee gremlin a time,” David replies, and revels in the merry sound of Michael’s laughter.

Catching up is a joy as always, and by the end of the meal David feels newly fortified. He’d never felt adrift when working away from home in the ways Michael’s expressed to him before, but connecting here in these small ways make him understand it a bit. Beyond culture and background, there’s a shared language between them; it’s deeply comforting to be around someone who likes so many of the same things as he does and moves within the same social strata. He never likes thinking of himself as a celebrity, but he’s long since stopped denying it affects him.

As they’re paying the bill, Michael brings out his mobile. “Mind if we?” he asks, gesturing for David to come take a seat beside him for a photo. “For Twitter.”

“Why aren’t you on Instagram like all the cool kids?” David asks as he slides into the booth next to Michael to pose. He bubbles into a laugh when Michael aims a kiss towards his cheek and snaps the selfie.

“Who says I’m not? I could be _everywhere,_” Michael replies. He shows David the photo. “Okay?”

“Oh, you know that’s going to put the internet in a tizzy.” David’s not exactly objecting to the visual of him scrunched up laughing while Michael aims to plant one on him, but he knows precisely the reaction it’s going to garner even if he’ll not be seeing it directly. Barrowman for one will surely be texting him about it within the hour using the phrase ‘horny slut’ in some context. “But have at it.”

Michael slides his arm away from David’s shoulder and starts composing a tweet. “It’s like advance PR for our film.”

“Of course it is, and not simply you being an utter bastard,” David says, chuckling, and as Michael gleefully posts he stares off into space and breaks into his best Alec Guinness to say: “I felt a great disturbance in the Twitterverse, as if millions of perverts suddenly cried out in joy--”

“--and their knickers were suddenly drenched,” Michael finishes for him annoyingly pitch-perfect.

David makes a face and yet can’t help but laugh. He’s always amazed at how, in the same vein as his wife, Michael is never as put upon by knowingly stirring up fans as he is. Feral energy, as Georgia calls it.

“Your publicist _adores_ me and you know it,” Michael says.

Taking into consideration how well the press tour for Good Omens went with all of Michael’s enthusiastic gushing over their on-screen chemistry and the relationship between their characters, he’s right, of course.

“Oh, and would you look at that, a retweet already from Georgia with a little kissy face. Seems like your wife loves me, too.”

“But do _I_ love you?” David quips.

“Time will tell.”

*

The production meeting is...a production meeting. No surprises at all, just scheduling and chatter and a great deal of shaking hands with people whose names and faces David prays he’ll be able to remember.

He’d hoped he and Michael might spend a bit more time together and make dinner plans, but when David catches him in the hall Michael sorrowfully declines. He’s off to see Sarah for the night--news to which David clearly doesn’t manage to successfully hide his surprise, and Michael lays a gentle hand on his arm and whispers, “It’s not cheating if all parties know, agree, and consent, darling.”

Which David knows, of course, but he’s rarely encountered polyamory in the circle of friends closest to him. Most of whom were settled down with a single partner and busy with children. He supposes that’s what comes as the biggest surprise--that Michael had a baby at home and still felt comfortable enough to be hooking up with his ex. His mind runs in circles with that for hours like a rodent in a wheel, because with the way Michael and Sarah had separated, could she really be considered an ex? Somehow that seems to David to imply a very different sort of breakup.

Somewhere abouts the evening, his brain grinds to a halt and he realizes that despite the mischievous gleam in Michael’s eye and his quietly rejecting the notion of infidelity, David has been terribly presumptuous to assume Michael seeing her meant _seeing_ her. It might be the sort of comfortably amicable friendship he enjoys with Kate. Truthfully, all of it is absolutely none of his businesses. They’d become rather close friends, but they’d hardly been telling one another their deepest darkest secrets.

It’s all firmly out of his mind and David’s idly flipping through channels on the telly when there’s a knock at his door. An accompanying buzz from his mobile rattles on the nightstand. “It’s me,” Michael says when David picks up. A second little shave-and-a-haircut knock sounds as David’s opening the door.

“Have you eaten?” Michael asks, ending the call and smiling.

“Ah, I’ve just ordered up.” David gestures towards the telephone by the bed.

“Cancel it and let’s go out. Sarah had to reschedule, but I’ve kept the reservation. This place is fantastic--not sushi, I promise--plenty of seared meats and an orgasmic dessert selection.”

“I’m a little settled in.”

“Well in that case. How about if I drop the table and join you,” Michael suggests, pivoting without hesitation. Though when David doesn’t immediately agree, he adds, “No pressure at all if you’d rather spend a quiet evening alone.”

“Oh, no. No!” David shakes his head and steps back to welcome Michael in. “Please. I’d love for you to join me.”

“Good, because while there would’ve been no pressure, I would have gone off and judged you rather harshly.”

Michael cancels his table while David calls down and doubles his dinner order, and the two of them end up simply sitting side by side together on the bed watching a rerun of a crime procedural. He’s sat to Michael’s left because at this point he’s grown so accustomed to it anything else seems odd. It’s nice, and David’s glad to have the company without the pressure of being “on”.

When the show they’ve been mindlessly absorbing goes to commercial he tips his head to look sidelong at Michael and takes a moment to admire Michael’s profile. He’d done the same so many times during filming. The beard changed the shape of his face drastically, but David thought he carried it exceptionally well. “You know...we ought to do a convention together. Fans would _love_ it.”

Michael sits upright and claps a hand on his leg excitedly. “Oh, we should! David, that’s a fucking amazing idea. You know, I’ve always wanted to do a proper convention with photo ops and everything.”

David grins broadly. “Oh you’d adore it. You know I got more demons this year than Time Lords.”

The idea sweeps Michael up like a tidal wave, and he takes up his mobile to make notes and set reminders to figure out how and when and where. He goes so far as to make David check his schedule to strategize, and the rest of the evening passes with Michael asking him about the feel of one show versus another and so on.

When he can’t stop cracking a yawn every few sentences, Michael takes pity on him. He tells David he’ll get out his hair and let him get that beauty rest, but as he’s seeing Michael to the door, the devil in him kicks up and David finds himself saying: “Here for a moment I thought you might suggest we share the bed like in act two.”

“David, you minx, don’t tempt me,” Michael says, pausing with one hand on the doorhandle. He catches David’s eye and when he leans towards him David’s heart jumps straight into his throat. Michael’s eyes narrow a touch. “How can you possibly claim not to be a tease with a straight face.”

“Well, a little thing called acting,” David replies smartly, voice steady despite knowing that if he tipped forward, he could kiss Michael. If he’d talked things out with Georgia ahead of time it would be nothing at all to touch fingers to Michael’s jaw and pull him in…. David swallows around a dry throat, his mind a scramble. What if. _What if?_ How different would his night be were he free to ask Michael to stay the night instead of simply make sly jokes about the script and harbor a growing desire to push this relationship of theirs from a truly enjoyable friendship towards something more.

Truthfully, while it’s early in London it’s not too early that Georgia wouldn’t be awake getting the kids ready for school. He could give her a ring. But how awkward would that be to hold that conversation with Michael hanging about waiting for her say-so.

Maybe Michael reads the panicked swirl of thoughts going on behind his eyes, or maybe he’s just as ready to get some rest. Either way, Michael says, “We’ll figure out the scheduling soon,” and bids him a good night. 

The moment Michael’s gone, the tiredness hits him like a landslide. David flips the security latch and stands there for a moment with his forehead tipped against the door. It’s probably a good thing he didn’t straight up solicit Michael and beg him to wait a moment and let him ring up Georgia. He’s all too certain she’d say yes.

And how embarrassing would it be to try and take the man to bed for the first time when the idea of brushing his teeth sounds like a Herculean task.

*

The regret at passing on a near perfect chance hits David later, when as a series regular Michael’s on the call sheet for his show so often they don’t have the opportunity to see one another again before David’s boarding his plane back to London. 

After that, the days blur, full of puppet shows for the kids and wrangling out time with Georgia without a squirming squalling baby passed between them. Plus video meetings at odd hours, a few rounds of voice work in studio, then flights hopping back and forth as pre-production for the new film starts ramping up.

He’s hardly spoken a word or messaged more than a sentence or two to Michael in ages, and then somehow he’s looking at the next flight on his schedule and it’s for the convention they’d planned to attend together what now four months back?

Luckily it feels as if they fall back into step without having missed a beat, and their reunion is a merry one. “A panel or two? Press junkets? You’re practically a con virgin,” David scoffs as they wait in the wings of the biggest hall in the convention center. It’s not Hall H big, but it’s sizeable, and he’s alive with giddy excitement from the chattering buzz of a room full of people.

Michael is too, although he looks remarkably unruffled. “O, wise one, beloved by many. Show me thy ways.”

The announcer’s voice booms over the microphone, and the volunteer keeping them company gives Michael his cue.

_“Werewolf… Vampire… A master of...certain things to remain unsaid because there are children in the audience… Please put your hands together to welcome everyone’s favorite perfect angel, Michael Sheen!”_

Michael tosses him a grin before strolling out on stage to shrieking applause. David’s thrilled for him to experience this; it’s so different than being part of a panel in service of promoting a film. This room is filled entirely with fans who are here to see them--a truly humbling experience every single time. “Not bad for a newbie, I’d say,” he says to the volunteer, shaking out his hands and bouncing from leg to leg as he waits for his cue.

_“Oh wait, there are two chairs out here? I suppose that means it’s time for… a…_Time Lord,_ in fact... Or is it mind controlling supervillain…? Sssservent of Hell…? Sauntering vaguely downward to the stage right now… it’s David Tennant!”_

He tosses a grin at the volunteer and then runs out on stage with his usual enthusiasm, only he skids to a halt almost immediately to put that Crowley wriggle in his hips and swoop down to put an arm around Michael briefly before sliding into his seat and soaking up the deafening roar that overtakes the hall. It’s bursting with fans who scream louder still when as planned Michael fusses and insists they swap seats so they’re on the ‘proper sides’ of one another.

The moderator starts them off with easy questions that allow them to repeat some of the same anecdotes they’ve shared across junkets, and once there’s a queue, there’s the usual stream of questions and an early Jessica up at the mic for him to shout at in Kilgrave’s voice. After he’s answered her question, Michael takes the opportunity to turn to him and ask, “What would _you_ tell me to do if you could order me about?”

One woman in the audience makes a very shrill and shocked sound and as the tittering spreads it feels a lot like he’s sat next to Barrowman. “Oh, I dunno,” David says, wracking his brain for a family-friendly answer that Michael can’t twist into something unimaginably dirty. He eases back in his seat, hands bracing at the lip of the table. “Maybe treat yourself to a nice spa day? You’re one of the hardest working men I know.”

Michael holds a hand to his chest and gives him an endearing Aziraphale-worthy smile. That trap handily evaded, David waits for his racing heart to slow. He’s glad that the next few questions are lobbed at Michael as he gathers his wits, and enjoys the novelty of sharing a stage with someone who gets just as many questions as he does.

As the time ticks down, the moderator turns to them. “So, you’re both starring in a new movie together. A romantic comedy, we hear. What can you tell us about it?”

“Two romcoms in a row, we’re liable to be typecast aren’t we,” Michael says.

“Well we’re not celestial beings in this one.”

“He says that,” Michael tells the crowd, “but his character is running a farm with rescued animals and that sounds like an angel to me. I’m a journalist needing to escape from city life who by circumstance ends up as a boarder.”

“It’s a classic fish out of water tale,” David adds.

“We haven’t started filming yet, but if everything on the page makes it to the screen, whew!” Michael casts a devious glance his way and chuckles. “It certainly isn’t the horse that gets ridden in the end.”

David gives him an honestly scandalized look and turns to the crowd with an epic side-eye for a laugh to cover for the fact that he has never blushed harder on a panel in his life. In fact, it’s possible he might expire on the spot. Meanwhile, Michael certainly knows his audience because the shrieking could shatter glass.

Somewhere, Barrowman is probably already composing a text.

*

Once principal photography begins, filming is a great many early mornings in the Pennsylvania countryside to get those dawn shots. It’s a small cast, so when they’re not chatting with the crew or holed up in their trailers for a bit of downtime, he and Michael spend hours huddled side by side swaddled in large coats. As his family can’t so easily relocate temporarily as Michael’s, it’s rather touching how often Michael checks in on whether he’s had a chance to call Georgia or has seen whatever antics she’s up to on Instagram. Possibly it’s because he texts with her more often than David does.

“Your wife says hello,” Michael tells him.

“Give her my love,” David says, keeping his hands firmly in the pockets of his coat and not freezing his fingers off by fooling around on the internet this early in the morning.

“Give it to her yourself. I’ve got a group chat for us which I can see that you read.”

“You’re already messaging her!”

“Dear Georgia, I am a stubborn arsehole who is so bloody skinny I can’t retain any heat and thus must rely on my very kind and far more talented and handsome castmate Michael to relay to you this missive,” Michael dictates as he types furiously with his thumbs. Enough so that David thinks he might actually be sending her that.

“You bastard,” David says, kicking his foot lightly against Michael’s.

“I love you dearly, but as we have not seen one another in some time, I hesitate to tell you that Michael’s charm and delightful wit leave me ever so flustered. Why, we are hardly apart, he and I, just like our characters and I think that at any moment he might see fit to ravish me right here in this very field amongst the dew-kissed grasses and many heaping piles of horse shit.”

With a sigh, David pulls out his mobile and sends his own text message. “Oh there’s definitely a lot of horse shit about,” David agrees, and fires off a quick note to his wife signed with a hug and kiss. He follows up with a “hello in this redundant group text because Michael is a needy twat” as well.

Back in his trailer, Georgia gives him a hard time for it over FaceTime, laughing at his consternation. She’s draped against the couch and there’s a flash of running going on about behind her. “But honestly, you know he does it to get a rise out of you. Literally. For f’s sake, David, just sleep with the man. One of us ought to be getting some while they can.”

“I couldn’t!”

“Couldn’t because you think Michael’s _not_ shamelessly flirting with you at every opportunity?” She glances over his shoulder to make sure no little ears are in range. “Or couldn’t because you know I’ll be sat here consumed by lust and overwhemingly jealous that you’ve tapped that first.”

David scrunches his face up and shakes his head. Of course he can tell Michael is flirting with him, but how could he possibly do anything about it now? “Maybe I could’ve before we’d begun filming, but what if he says no? Oh, it’d be awkward.”

“If he said no, I’d eat my slippers.”

Georgia’s an excellent judge of character, but it’s far too risky. Maybe Michael enjoys being a flirt and simply fostering that thrilling tingle of attraction in his belly. Maybe whatever rules he abides by in his relationship don’t extend to seeing co-stars, or new flings, or men for that matter. But as the days go on whenever they’re off camera, David can’t think about hardly anything else other than what would happen if he did make a move, and he wonders more and more how Michael might respond if he leaned in and whispered something genuinely rude into his ear.

On camera, it’s easy enough to let his affection for Michael show through while shutting off the part of his brain that wants to get into his pants. And whatever Michael’s feelings for him, he’s equally professional the moment the cameras are rolling so it’s blessedly easy for David to focus entirely on the lines and hitting his mark.

Even when he’s stripped down to his shorts and got his hands on Michael’s face to pull him into a kiss, David’s thinking entirely about angles and shots and none of the maybe and what if that consumes him later.

The wrap party is when he’ll make his move, David decides. Or rather the point in the wrap party when the cast and crew who like staying out until the wee hours getting smashed won’t much care when he ducks out and takes Michael with him.

He works out generally what he thinks he ought to say. Which is a bit more romantic than Georgia’s suggestion of: _Fancy a blow job, Michael?_ But what he doesn’t plan for is being laid low by a stomach bug the night before.

Michael FaceTimes him from the party long enough to send him well wishes and allow him to say something nice to the assembled folks before he proceeds to spend the rest of the night in his hotel bed praying for a quick and merciful death.

And after he’s vertical again, Michael’s already headed home, and then the day-to-day of kids and household and the random scatter of work gets in the way again as it’s wont to do.

*

With months apart and only a handful of texts in the group chat or directly from Michael, David considers that everything he’d felt might’ve been a fleeting fancy with a bit of transference by way of his character’s emotions.

He’s convinced himself of it rather effectively until a week before their first photo shoot when Michael rings him up and purrs at him through the phone asking if he’s been well and apologizing for being so absorbed in other things not to have kept in touch as much as he’d have liked.

David stammers out some sort of variation of “It’s perfectly fine and so lovely to hear your voice again” while Georgia presses her lips together and gives him a _look_. He waves her away and she breaks into a quiet laugh, then mouths, “I’ll leave you two be,” and makes herself scarce, but not before some choice hand gestures.

Being left alone doesn’t help. It’s like he’s forgotten how to make conversation on top of how amazing it is to be the focus of Michael’s attention. He stumbles through pleasantries and by the time he gets his proverbial feet back under him is fairly certain he hasn’t made a complete arse of himself.

“We’ve got a full slate of morning chat shows to look forward to,” Michael says. “All those mums to rile up.”

“Good thing you excel at that.”

“What was that, Britain’s Sexiest Man Alive?”

“Ten years past!”

Michael laughs merrily. “Did you know my father’s doing press for us already? The other day he says to me, ‘Michael, I’ve been telling all the ladies in town about your new romantic comedy. I have no idea what it’s about, but that David, he’s such a nice fellow, you couldn’t do better,” Michael says, and drops out of his impression of his father to add: “I couldn’t do better? What am I an old maid? It’s as if he’s angling for us to get married.”

“Could you imagine the headlines?”

“Somewhere across town your publicist just had the strongest orgasm of her life.”

David makes a face trying not to laugh. “So, I’ll see you next week then.”

“Next week,” Michael agrees, and promises to let him know if he’ll be in the night before or what his plans might be. He also promises to send David a list of all the awkward poses he thinks they’re likely to get asked to do in their photo shoot.

“Are we placing bets on your list?”

“Ooh, good idea,” Michael says. “I’ll send it to the group instead in case Georgia has any to add. Loser buys dinner?”

Laughing, David agrees to the terms.

He’s not laughing a week later on the day of, when there’s an endless parade of prom style shots and makeup retouches and, “The position of your hand says wooing but can you look a little livelier on your knees there, David.”

Michael, fighting the urge to be a cranky bastard, leans down to whisper under his breath, “Yes, David, be a little livelier when you’re on your knees, would you love.”

And then to his absolute mortification his blush shows through the makeup and they need to wait for him to compose himself before they can continue.

Somehow, they abide and make it through the shoot without Michael committing homicide or David expiring on the spot whenever an innuendo-laden comment is made within earshot of the photographer or her assistant. “Sweet freedom,” Michael says once he’s slipped back into his own clothes and waiting for David to emerge from the other makeshift dressing room. “Bite to eat? I owe you and I’m fucking starving.”

“Missing those American catering tables already?”

“God, yes,” Michael says, rolling his eyes upward. His teeth close on his lip and he makes the most obscene sound possible. David’s mind drops straight back into the gutter. It stays there even as they stop for a drink and a nibble at a place not too far from Michael’s hotel. David’s certain he’s held up his end of a conversation this whole time, and yet he’s still thinking about that little growly moan as Michael’s paying the bill and they’re fetching their coats.

“You seem distracted,” Michael says once they’re stood outside. “I was going to--”

“Do you want to go back to your hotel?” David says. His gaze flickers briefly to Michael’s mouth. “For a, um…_chat_.”

Michael’s expression shifts towards calculating. “Are you…?” he lets the question trail off. The scatter of pedestrians mostly ignore them, but there are a few whose glances linger and who double-take a few steps beyond.

“Yes I bloody am,” David replies in the same tone his character uses in their penultimate scene together. The one where they’re stop a windswept hill proclaiming their love to one another in a shouting match before tumbling into the grass in a mess of limbs.

“About time,” Michael says, grinning.

*

Where his character had been tentative, Michael most certainly is not. The minute they’re inside, he kisses like a man starving. Like he can’t get enough of the taste of David. They haven’t even made it past the luggage stand, knocking about in the entry to the hotel room like a pair of mad weasels.

“Knew you’d say yes eventually,” Michael says, shrugging out of his coat and abandoning it atop his open suitcase.

David hauls off a boot and gives him a scoffing look. “Say yes to what. You never outright asked me a thing!”

“Well of course I didn’t. I couldn’t very well risk scaring you off, now could I?” Michael pauses to unlace his shoes. “Had to feel things out as it were.”

Oh they’re a pair of fools, they are. David straight up giggles at the absurdity and struggles to be free of the rest of his own outer layers. “Suppose we’re here now so it all worked out in the end,” he muses, reaching greedily for the hem of Michael’s jumper and helping him out of it.

“Are your hands always bloody freezing?” Michael asks, squirming away with a laugh. He hisses as David follows and then a moan rides his exhale as he’s pressed up against the wall with David’s palms leaching heat from his sides. “I don’t even know why I asked.”

“I make up for it,” David says.

“How’s that?”

“My mouth is very warm in comparison,” David tells him, tongue flirting at the corner of his mouth as he skids his touch to the front of Michael’s trousers to squeeze at where he’s trapped thick and getting harder. “Shall I show you?”

“Please do,” Michael breathes. He bobs his head in a nod, curls bouncing in a way that makes David think very filthy thoughts, and flicks open the button of his trousers to skim them down to his thighs. “If only in the pursuit of science.”

It’s not the first time David’s seen his cock, but it’s definitely the first time he’s seen it hard, and he gives it a firm squeeze before dropping down to his heels to explore the shape of it with his lips. Michael’s hands get familiar with his shoulders, fingertips pressing against him as he mouths the length of Michael’s cock, eyes sliding shut before he’s taking the tip in his mouth for that first taste.

“Oh, David.”

It’s been ages since he’s sucked a cock not strapped to a harness, but it’s rather a lot like riding a bike. David draws Michael in, his mouth flooding wet instantly, his grip a cushion at the base of Michael’s dick as he settles into a rhythm. Michael’s not shy about sounding out his pleasure, a low groan greeting David whenever his tongue does something particularly clever. It goads him on, and if Michael has anything to say about him being livelier on his knees, it’s lost in the quickening of his breath.

Eventually Michael’s hands find his face and David blinks his eyes open and glances up to where Michael’s watching him, gaze keen and gleaming.

“You’re perfect,” Michael says. He scrapes his teeth over his lip, a brief smile melting into a moan when David responds with a contented hum and the roll of his tongue. Michael’s thumb strokes his cheek fondly, whispering across his beard.

“Bet you say that to everyone who gives you a blow job,” David says, angling Michael’s cock to the side to flick his tongue against the flaring ridge.

“Maybe, but I always, _always_ mean it.”

David laughs, infused with pure joy. “I believe it,” he says, and the lovely lightness in his chest gives way to the heat of lust again when he swallows Michael deep again. He’s warmed up now, eager for it and enthusiastic in a way that makes him sloppy, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind in the least. He pauses only twice when Michael tells him he needs a moment, and then when his jaw is aching, David pulls off with a gasp and presses Michael’s cock up to pin it against his belly. He tongues a kiss along the shaft, then beside it, then up and up, scattering a path of wet kisses up Michael’s body, until he’s standing before him again and sharing Michael’s breath. Slowly, he twists his hand around and strokes Michael’s cock as their mouths come together again.

“Shall I return the favor?” Michael asks. His hands find David’s hips and pull him closer.

“Well, I was going to get back to it...” David murmurs between kisses.

“Mmm...don’t let me stop you.”

“...but I also was giving some thought to the idea of fucking you,” David says, and grins when Michael’s breath catches and his cock swells in the trap of David’s fingers. “Like that, would you?”

“I think I would like that very much. Very, very much,” Michael replies, pushing the purr of his words straight into David’s mouth.

David’s certain he attempts to say something to the effect of that’s wonderful, but higher thought gives way to the giddy schoolboy rush of tearing off the rest of one another’s clothing. They become nothing but a tangle of kisses and grasping hands, and at some point, they manage to tumble into bed and yes, he confirms, Michael does very, very much like being fucked by him.

*

_Two months later_

“Is it awkward starring in a romantic comedy with a close friend?”

“Did you not see us in Good Omens?” David asks.

“But you weren’t making out with one another as Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“Well, they’d only just gotten together in the end. And what happens in Rome stays in Rome,” Michael responds with an arched brow. His knee nudges against his and David wishes he could disappear into the vinyl poster serving as their backdrop.

“Can’t you tell just from looking at us how much we love another?” Michael adds, giving David the same sort of endearing, adoring look that he wore so often on camera as Aziraphale. Beneath it, David knows, lurks a sharper and far more devious grin. “Why it was hardly acting at all.”

“There was a bit of acting,” David says.

“I suppose. You had to really pretend to like that horse. David _hated_ that horse.”

“It didn’t hate it! It didn’t like _me!_” David aims a somewhat pleading look to the interviewer. “You have no idea how many takes we had to do for something so simple as exiting a _barn_.”

The interviewer manages to segue into a question about working with animals on set, and David thanks God and the Devil and anyone else who might be listening that Michael doesn’t say something else mortifying like, “Let me tell you who the real animal is….” and imply something about his bedroom prowess. Which, David will admit to in the privacy of his own head, and in his own home to his wife, or to his co-star-turned-lover whom he would very much like to strangle right now.

“You’ve said you were always up for the same parts,” the interviewer says. “With this and Good Omens, do you think after this you’ll be typecast as everyone’s favorite romantic couple?”

“We should be so lucky,” David replies. “Comfy wardrobe on a film like this.”

“And a bit of a palate cleanser between portrayals of serial killers,” Michael adds.

The interview wraps up with what is turning out to be the question they’re likely to hear the most this publicity tour: “So, which one of you is the better kisser?”

David mumbles his new stock answer, which is some variation of: “We’re both a bit rubbish.”

Michael, however, cycles through a few responses, which depending on the media outlet or his mood has been, “You’ll have to ask John Barrowman,” “Definitely me, hands down, no question about it,” and today’s favorite: “Everyone should be so lucky as to have a chance to snog David. Just look at him...Britain’s sexiest man.”

“That was ten years ago,” David reminds the interviewer, who very sweetly gives him a compliment that ends the conversation on a light tone. And then it’s another one down with a dozen or so more to go.

“Dinner tomorrow?” Michael suggests in the quiet moments before the next interviewer is being ushered in. He fetches two water bottles from the floor beneath their chairs and hands one to David.

He doesn’t entirely mind Michael’s shameless answers, even when they make him sputter and blush. There’s a naughty little thrill that comes with knowing when Michael’s definitely not referring to their film or their characters, and David does, on occasion, give as good as he gets. “How about brunch instead?” he asks, without the slightest hint to suggest to anyone around them that it implies spending the night together.

Michael pats his thigh and says, “Brunch would be absolutely lovely.”

In a heartbeat it’s time for the next interview, and soon there will be more press, and the bustle of the premiere, and David thinks back to when nearly a year ago now Michael had said something to the effect of they’d be seeing far too much of one another. David doesn’t mind junkets, as impersonal as they are, but he’s sat through enough of these to know that doing them with Michael makes them feel like anything other than a chore. Unless he completely puts his foot in his mouth, he’ll soon forget the boring parts of today--the parade of handshakes and soundbites--but the brief moments of enjoying Michael’s company in between will linger. He’ll remember the scatter of companionship and subtle flirting, the desire to lean over and whisper something absurdly filthy in Michael’s ear, and how wonderful it is whenever Michael’s attention is entirely on him and he’s the center of Michael’s world.

It’s a space he’s happy to occupy, however briefly in the grand scheme of things. And there’s always the hope that they _will_ end up with more and more opportunities to work together, on the stage next perhaps.

“It’s a date,” David says, and they share a quick smile before they’re both tucking their water back beneath their chairs and leaning forward to welcome the next set of questions.

“Michael has been tweeting a lot about this movie. Has he, um, taught you anything about social media?”

“You mean besides what my wife hasn’t already tried to educate me on?”

“Well, like the emojis...”

David throws his hands up. “I will never hear the end of that. Do you-- Do you know, he sends me eggplants and winky faces all the time? It’s a trap isn’t it?”

Michael spreads his hands and shrugs.

The interviewer seems too flustered to respond, a little too green to pivot smartly like the last, and David feels a touch guilty for putting her in an awkward position. “Sorry, forget I said anything.” he says, and waves a dismissive hand in Michael’s direction. “Next question?”

The next couple are simple softballs that they give their stock answers to, and as the clipboard attendant gives the wrap it up signal, the interviewer nervously checks her notes. “I guess this is my last question. Um, do you think it’s romantic to give up your job for someone you’ve fallen in love with?”

Michael’s about to answer, but David beats him to it. “Not particularly, not in the real world anyway. Well, if you hate your job, sure. But if you enjoy what you do, just work with them. Trust me, if you don’t end up marrying them, it’s a great excuse to spend more time together.”

“Oh, David,” Michael says, with a cherubic smile that’s played up for the camera. “You do love me.”

He sits up a bit straighter in his chair and points a finger at the camera, hoping this will make the poor interviewer leave on a high note. “Enjoy this one, Twitter, or YouTube, or whatever,” he says, and with a wide grin turns towards Michael. “I _do_ love you, you feral bastard.”

Michael laughs and leans a head against David’s shoulder. He might be playing it up for the camera, but beneath it all David can feel the hum of the air between them--the quiet pleasantness of this relationship they’ve built. The love that’s taken root there, entwined with their friendship.

*


End file.
